


seek out the sea

by petasos



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Camp Half-Blood (Percy Jackson), Canon-Typical Violence, Demigods, Developing Friendships, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jearmin Week 2020, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Quests, Trans Armin Arlert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25378162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petasos/pseuds/petasos
Summary: Armin Arlert is not a leader, and he's not a hero. Maybe his best friend, Eren, is, but he's not. Prophecies and quests are a tricky thing, though - especially when the Oracle comes out of her cave, after months of solitude, to give Armin a quest that has him heading across the country looking for a golden apple and dreaming about things he definitely shouldn't be.Luckily, he has Reiner Braun and Jean Kirstein with him - even if the former has too many ties to this quest, and the latter Armin has a burgeoning crush on. Prophecies may be tricky, but navigating a crush on one's friend while dealing with monsters, godly parents, half-siblings, and trying to make sure they don't lose any of the books brought along... is easier said than done.Not that having a crush on Jean is the worst of Armin's problems... you know, given the death and monsters.
Relationships: Armin Arlert & Reiner Braun, Armin Arlert/Jean Kirstein, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Reiner Braun & Jean Kirstein, Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover/Annie Leonhart
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	seek out the sea

**Author's Note:**

> wow!! so i know there are problems with this fic (like, things that aren't quite how they should be as per pjo canon) but, y'know. creative liberties! also title is from the prophecy in here, which means it's probably the first fic i've written in *years* that doesn't have a line of poetry or a lyric as the title. woo!
> 
> i'd like to thank my dear friend (you know who you are!!!), who helped me come up with godly parents for the characters, suggested a weapon for armin, listened to me rant about editing, and is just generally a wonderful person who i would die for if asked.
> 
> also, this is for jearmin week day six: mythology!! while not my original plan for this week (i had an idea that i hope to still write in the future), i had a BLAST with this.
> 
> come chat with me @ petasos on tumblr!

_Capture the Flag_ , Armin thinks, _would be a lot better if trying to get Cabin Six on your team wasn’t such a big deal_. Sure, children of Athena are naturally good at strategy, and of course you want them on your side, and it’s nice when the Hermes kids or Ares kids trade chores in exchange for their support… but Armin would honestly rather sit Capture the Flag out.

He’d rather read a book while everyone else plays, like the one he has sitting in front of him, the one he’d brought to read over dinner (it’s a book of Sappho’s poetry, in the original Greek, borrowed from Historia.) He hasn’t touched the book at all.

“Listen,” says Eren, sitting down at Armin’s table during dinner, a piece of paper wadded up in his fingers. “As counselor of Cabin Sixteen -”

“We know, Eren,” says Pieck, Cabin Six’s counselor, from beside Armin. “You’re at the wrong table.”

“I’m _trying_ to offer you a trade here, Pieck. Usually, it’s the cabin in charge who comes and trades stuff, but here I am!” Eren frowns at her, and Pieck frowns back at him, almost matching his expression exactly. “Sure, Cabin Sixteen is pretty small -”

“There’s three of you,” Armin points out, taking a sip of his cranberry sprite, and Eren gives him a dejected look.

“We’ll clean the toilets for a week if you let us on your team.”

Pieck gives Eren a look that Armin can’t quite read. But then again, he’s never been able to read Pieck. She nearly always has this exhausted look on her face, like she hasn’t gotten enough sleep.

She gets plenty of it. Armin catches her napping when she should be doing her chores all the time. Sometimes he wonders if she was meant to be a child of Hypnos.

“We’ve already aligned ourselves with the Demeter kids -” Pieck looks like she’s mentally calculating it out. “- the Nike kids, and the Ares kids. _Why_ should we align ourselves with you?”

Armin briefly thinks about the fact that it’s Eren, and that Eren is his best friend, and that he should probably speak up and say something, given Pieck would probably listen to him. Eren’s not the most talented fighter, but he’s still good.

And since they’ve aligned themselves with the Nike cabin…

“Because,” Armin says, before Eren can answer, “we have Mikasa on our team already.”

“Alright,” says Pieck, an unspoken ‘I can’t argue with that logic’, and gives Eren a lazy smile, reaching across the table to shake on it. “You’re on board. We’ll see you on the field after dinner tomorrow, Eren.”

Eren smiles slightly and shakes her hand, brushing his hair out of his face as he gets to his feet. “I’ll see you then.”

Armin can already see Nicolo, Cabin Twelve’s counselor, approaching their table.

They already have to deal with the Hermes, Apollo, and Aphrodite kids on the Blue Team - but they’ve got a good strategy. Making a deal with the Dionysus kids wouldn’t be a bad idea, and besides, Nicolo’s a nice guy.

But then - Reiner Braun puts a hand on Nicolo’s shoulder, and Nicolo turns towards him, his eyes widening at whatever Reiner’s currently saying to him.

Armin watches as the two talk, as Reiner leads Nicolo towards the Zeus cabin’s table. There are only two people in Cabin One: Reiner and Gabi Braun, both of whom could _probably_ kick Armin’s ass just by looking at him.

When he, Pieck, and the rest of Cabin Six get up to get ready, the Hermes cabin jeers loudly at them. He makes eye contact with Jean Kirstein for a half-second, who’s eyes widen slightly in response to the contact, but he wraps an arm around Connie and takes a swig of his drink, not meeting Armin’s gaze as he sets down his cup.

Armin’s face reddens.

He hurries after Pieck, clutching his book and stumbling over himself to catch up with her. Pieck looks back towards him with that tired smile of hers and says, “We’ll show them.”

With Mikasa on their side, Armin doesn’t doubt that.

* * *

Sleeping is hard on Thursday nights. Armin has a feeling he’s never slept well, especially when Cabin Six is given leadership for Capture the Flag; it means he and the other older kids end up staying up late, scanning over old strategies and putting together a new one.

At least they have Erwin’s journal (he was the counselor before Pieck, one of the older Athena kids who grew out of staying at camp), and have notes from previous games, which is enough for Armin.

It’s especially worse when he dreams. And it’s a bad one.

Which, for demigods, isn’t abnormal. Armin’s had them his entire life, woken up from nightmares drenched in sweat. They lessened, once he started coming to Camp Halfblood, but they didn’t stop completely.

He dreams he’s in a garden.

A garden filled to the brim with flowers Armin can’t name if he tried, colors he swears even now don’t exist in the color spectrum. Clover-grass beneath his feet as he moves past trees blooming with flowers and fruit, wind whistling through the branches. When he reaches his hand out, it’s not his own.

 _Huh_ , Armin thinks. There’s long, platinum blond hair falling in front of his eyes.

He’s not himself. He’s not in his own body.

 _That_ hasn’t been considered ‘normal’ for a long time.

When he reaches his hand out, he plucks an apple from the tree in front of him, and breaks it open. And nothing would be wrong with this statement, if the apple didn’t glitter gold, and the second he brings the fruit to his lips, someone doesn’t shriek.

Dreams for demigods don’t work like they do for humans. They feel _real_. The noise reverberates through him like a shock, and his grip on the apple slips, hitting the ground with a thud as he turns to look over his shoulder, hair brushing the nape of his neck.

There’s a young man, wearing a faded orange shirt and shoulderpads, and Armin thinks he looks really, really familiar, from his combed-back red hair to the twist of his mouth, the horror in his eyes. And just behind him, tangled up in ropes, there’s a young girl, dressed in a dress so white it bleaches her out, reaching towards the ground as the apple rolls towards her.

A hand rests on his shoulder.

Armin glances down to see claws.

Someone else screams.

And then the scene changes. It’s like he’s thrown out of his body, thrown backwards, and he’s falling, reaching up and out towards the air. There’s a pegasus above him, charging down towards him as if it’s trying to catch him, and on the pegasus there’s -

“ _Jean_!” calls out the boy on the horse, who has chin-length blond hair and is very clearly Armin himself, leaning so far over the pegasus’ head that Armin briefly thinks he’s going to fall, reaching a bandaged hand out. Armin moves to grab his own hand, but he’s hurtling towards the ground so fast that he thinks if he looks down he might throw up.

He opens his mouth to try and say something, but dream-Armin’s hand wraps around his wrist, and Armin can see blood on his own shirt when he looks down. He’s wearing armor, but that’s only a brief surprise, given the rest of this dream. The blood is more worrisome, given he’s apparently Jean in this dream.

“Grab my hand!” Dream-him is leaning closer and all Armin can think is, _does my voice really sound that high-pitched?_

And Armin wakes up, drenched in sweat, back in Cabin Six.

* * *

The sun’s not yet streaming through the windows, and it’s not light enough for him to see what time it is, but he scurries towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him and splashing his face with cold water.

Dreams really aren’t abnormal for half-bloods - it’s like they come with the territory. Usually, however, Armin’s dreams are just nontypical in how real they feel.

Sometimes he dreams he’s up on Mount Olympus, speaking to his (godly) mother, her striking gray eyes boring down into his as her hands press into strategy plans laid out across a war table.

Sometimes, he dreams about spiders, and wakes up sweating and on the verge of throwing up, shaking so hard he wonders if he’ll vibrate out of his skin. Every child of Athena gets those, though, it’s practically customary.

Sometimes, he dreams about the day his parents died. Those are the mornings he wakes up crying, and tries to pretend he can’t remember.

Mostly, though, he just dreams about things from Ancient Greece, a time when he wasn’t even alive. He dreams about olive trees blooming to growth, dreams about the sea crashing across sharp rocks, about fighting beside ancient heroes.

Eren doesn’t get dreams like he does. Mikasa just gets headaches. _They’re_ children of minor gods, they have full lives ahead of them. Armin’s always attracted monsters with relative ease compared to the two of them - chances of him living a normal life _do_ exist, but they’re slimmer compared to Eren and Mikasa.

As much as he _wants_ to go to college, have a job, have a regular mortal life…

Armin stares at his reflection in the mirror for a few seconds, at the hair that’s long enough he has to pull it into a ponytail when he works, at his too-soft face, at the hazel eyes he inherited from his human mother.

Most of his godly half-siblings have Athena’s scrutinizing silver gaze, but he doesn’t - his eyes are wide, and according to Zofia (his eleven-year-old half-sister), ‘cartoonishly expressive.’ It puts him out of place amongst his brethren.

Not that it matters.

He quits staring at his reflection. Staring at a mirror in the dark has never gotten him anywhere, anyways.

Armin wipes off his face, tries to make sense of that dream, the golden apple he’d held, how he hadn’t been in his body at all - but how he’d seen himself, falling, heard his own voice call out for… _Jean_ , of all people.

Or maybe, he thinks, it was a vision - a reason to go talk to the camp director.

That idea makes his stomach clench up, and reminds him to take some of his anxiety medication before tonight. He’d rather not have a panic attack in the woods.

He climbs back into bed, but doesn’t sleep. He just stares up at the glow-in-the-dark stars dotting the beams of wood above him, the ones he tried to manufacture into a copy of constellations when he was twelve, and never bothered to peel off.

Above him, Pieck snores, turning in her sleep.

Armin watches the light slowly trickle in through the windows, and tries to ignore the feeling in his gut telling him that he really ought to talk to someone about what he dreamt.

Everyone’s up and moving rather quickly, once the light comes in, and morning rises. Pieck’s first out of bed, getting Zofia and Udo out of their beds and making sure they brush their teeth.

Armin slinks off for a shower, takes an extra pair of clothes with him, orange shirt folded on top of his shorts.

Rico waves him off. “You smell horrible,” she tells him, and his face turns roughly the color of a tomato. “When was the last time you showered?”

“Sorry,” he tells her, and turns tail.

By the time Armin gets back from the showers, Pieck and some of the other older kids are going over plans again, studying a 3D model of the forest. Rico draws some schematics up on one of the SMART boards she’s dragged over, using her sharpie like it’s a conductor’s baton as she speaks.

Armin’s only half-paying attention.

“So far, Blue Team has cabins ten, eleven, and seven on their side, but it looks like Reiner and Gabi are joining them,” Rico says, and splays her hands out over the table. “And they’ve struck a deal with the Dionysus cabin -”

Armin tunes her voice out.

He knows he shouldn’t; he knows it’s bad form to not listen, to not participate, to just stand there and stare down at the model of the forest and think way too long about how someone took the time to map out the forest, the river, figure out the best places to hide a flag.

 _Someone_ , he thinks, _took the time to make miniatures shaped like trees._ He’d love to know who that was. Maybe they asked some Hephaestus kids to do it.

“- so, that’s the plan. We just have to relay it to the others,” Rico finishes, just as the bell rings, summoning them for breakfast. “Ah, excellent timing. I’ll put that in the report.”

“You and your reports,” sighs Pieck.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Armin’s exhausted. He barely focuses through the cabin inspections he and Rico have to run. He fakes having a headache to go lie down and spend lunch back at the cabin; tries and fails to take a nap. Canoeing is about as awful as usual, but at least he manages to spend a good ten minutes before dinnertime out on the beach with a book, listening to the waves lap at the sand as he pours over a book on oceanography.

“Are you doing okay?” Pieck asks, during dinner, her hand resting on his shoulder. “If you need to sit out tonight I’m sure -”

He stares down at the brisket on his plate. It smells good, but he’s not hungry.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he says, and waves her off, poking his fork into the food.

He really should eat it. He doesn’t want to faint during Capture the Flag. It’s incredibly important, after all, that they win and get the laurels.

Probably.

He can’t actually bring himself to really _care_.

“I’m just… anxious… about the game,” he finally says.

“I promise you, we’re going to win. We have Mikasa _and_ the entire Ares cabin on our side.” He can tell Pieck’s looking towards the Ares table, at Porco Galliard (Armin knows she has a huge crush on him, and also knows he’s very much not into women, not that Pieck’s fully aware of this fact. He hasn’t had the heart to tell her.) “We’re going to kick ass, ‘Min.”

And he believes that, he does. He’s just… worried, and he can’t shake the expression on that strange, familiar boy’s face from his mind.

He’d looked _terrified_.

Armin almost feels terrified, too.

* * *

It takes very little time to get ready when he has Eren’s help. Eren’s already dressed in his armor, his sword hanging at his hip, and Armin’s thankful to see his best friend, even if only for a few minutes as they get ready. If Eren noticed Armin seeming out of it today, he definitely doesn’t mention it, just adjusts the straps on Armin’s shoulderplates and pats him on the back.

“We’re gonna do great out there!”

Everyone is so certain they’re going to win tonight… Armin wonders how true that is.

He finishes getting ready, makes sure he has his quiver of bolts, his crossbow well-oiled. He’s fondly named his crossbow Thalassa (it means ‘sea’ in Greek), read somewhere that naming one’s weapons helps them get better acquainted with using them. He was ten, and it seemed like a great idea.

So did choosing a crossbow as his weapon, but ten-year-olds often have strange ideas.

Pieck turns to face the gathered cabins - Nemesis, Ares, Nike, Demeter, Poseidon (all one member of it), Hephesatus, and Hypnos. “So,” she says, “we all know the ground rules, Director Zeke already explained them!”

The rules never change, but they all know that. Every camper who’s not injured plays, all magic items allowed, guards can’t be within two feet of the flag and only two guards are allowed. Etc, etc, etc - it’s all simple. With Director Zeke acting as referee and battlefield medic (alongside a few of the younger Apollo kids), and equipment spread out for everyone to use… well, it’s exactly the same as it is every Friday.

“We’re going to hide our flag,” and Pieck waves the red flag at them, all ten feet of scarlet silk waving in the air, “in the trees.”

“Is that even allowed?” Eren asks, half-cutting her off.

“Yes, Eren. It’s allowed.” Pieck gives him a tired frown, her brows knitting together for a moment. She looks like she might pass out at any given moment, or possibly like she’s been smoking weed behind Cabin Eleven. “That’s what we’re doing. Bertholdt and Rico will guard the flag. Mikasa, Eren, Sasha, we’re sending the three of you to retrieve the flag, obviously with a back-up team.”

It’s not a bad strategy at all. Bertholdt’s a son of Poseidon, he’s not too shabby in a fight. Rico’s good with tactics. Mikasa, Sasha, and Eren are clearly the right choice to send off to retrieve the opposing team’s flag - it’s a smart idea.

Armin shuffles his feet, glancing over at Eren and Mikasa. They’re standing so close that Armin wonders if they’d meld together if given the opportunity. Sometimes he thinks they know more than he does, really ought to be the ones in charge of strategy for games of Capture the Flag.

He wonders what Eren would’ve done, if he’d had that dream last night.

Armin has a bad habit of toying with the beads on his camp necklace. He doesn’t notice he’s doing it - when Eren and Mikasa pointed it out to him, Armin turned pink and told them he’d never realized.

There are six beads on his necklace, six summers spent at this camp (and since his grandfather died, three years spent as a year-rounder), and there’s comfort in the way the clay feels against his thumb, how the paint’s a bit worn down from the oils in his skin.

(He’s a worrywort, or at least that’s what Mikasa says. Mikasa has no reason to worry. She’s a daughter of Nike, the goddess of victory - success is in her genetic code. Armin, however, has plenty of reasons to worry.)

Especially right now.

Especially worrying about that… _dream_.

Armin’s pretty sure his fingers have rubbed off all the paint on his fourth bead, which means he’ll have to wash off his hands, and he’d rather not have to do that, thanks. _Not_ when they’re about to go out into the woods to play Capture the Flag.

He’s barely aware of Pieck continuing to explain, Rico at her side. The two of them make an excellent pair when it comes to strategizing. They’re also an excellent pair on the field, but not as good as Porco and Pieck are - between Pieck’s swiftness and skill with her blade and Porco’s natural fighting skills… having the two of them on this team is a good thing.

And of course, Eren and Mikasa - they’re a natural team.

“We’re _not_ letting Cabin Eleven keep the laurels. Let’s do this!”

Red Team cheers in response, pressing forward into the woods, Pieck at the front. He watches the flag wave for a few moments before she hands it off to Rico and Bertholdt (Poseidon’s only son, though most people wouldn’t ever guess that based on how he acts.)

The two of them disappear into the trees, a stream of red behind. The rest of the team spreads out, shields and spears and swords at the ready.

Armin adjusts his helmet, staring through the trees, and aiming his crossbow, finding a place to stand guard and keep an eye out. It’s not the best strategy, but he hasn’t really been in his head all day.

All he can really hear is just… crickets chirping.

Then the horn blows in the distance, and the game starts. People are yelling, weapons clashing against each other, whoops and cheers and jeers and insults shouted through the trees. It’s all rather discordant. Armin’s probably going to have a headache later.

He can almost taste how the earth smells, but Armin’s not paying much attention to that; he’s watching for any members of Blue Team. It’s dark enough, the sun setting against the horizon, that Armin’s eyes are only just starting to adjust.

The grass rustles. Someone calls out “Heads up, Arlert!” in a very familiar voice.

Armin whips around, eyes landing on Eren’s half-brother, Marlowe, his shield pressed against Hitch Dreyse’s sword. Her eyes land on him, the blue plume in her helmet a contrast to the red on Marlowe’s. It’s a bit lopsided, the plume.

He aims his crossbow at her, hands only slightly shaking.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she says, and lunges at him. Which gives Marlowe ample room and open space to lunge at her, grabbing her by the ankles, the two hitting the grass in a thud.

Armin _almost_ doesn’t notice the other two approaching through the trees between the sounds of Marlowe and Hitch rolling around on the grass, each trying to grab the upper hand, their weapons discarded.

“Oi! Dreyse!” calls out Connie’s voice, and Armin’s eyes flicker up to meet Jean’s gaze. He immediately moves into a defensive position.

Jean grins at him, a bit apologetically, as he charges forward, swords in hand. Behind him, Connie’s pulling Hitch off Marlowe, but Armin barely notices that, ducking out of the way of Jean’s sword.

He stumbles, almost hits a tree and nearly drops Thalassa. Armin quickly nocks a bolt, pulling back and firing towards Jean’s knees. Given the angle, it’s his best shot.

And it lands.

Jean loses his balance and staggers, almost landing in the pile alongside Hitch, Connie, and Marlowe. Jean curses under his breath, the words a mixture of ancient Greek and… he’s pretty sure that’s French.

Connie drags Hitch off Marlowe, his hands on her shoulders, and she grabs at her sword, pointing it at Marlowe’s chest. Armin nocks another bolt, aiming it for her chestplate - at the very least, he can knock her off her balance, too, but -

Jean has a sword pointed at his throat. Armin moves backwards, so far that he almost trips over a branch, his back pressed against the tree behind him. He’s only barely aware of the scuffle going on behind them both.

“If this was a battlefield,” Jean says, and smirks at him with that stupid smug look that Armin currently wants to punch right off his dumb face (but he won’t.) “You’d be dead right now.”

“If this was a battlefield,” Armin replies shakily, gripping tightly at his crossbow. “I would’ve aimed to kill you.”

“Touché.”

Armin stares at him for a moment, waiting for Jean to actually knock him out or disarm him - but nothing happens. He’s sort of aware of Hitch knocking Marlowe down again, but that’s just off to the corner of his eye, something he doesn’t even care about. 

There’s a scream from behind them, and Jean whips around. Armin drops, almost nicking his forehead on the sword as he rolls out of the way, stumbling back to his feet and grabbing at his quiver. Several Ares kids come crashing through the trees.

Three things happen in roughly subsequent order, immediately after that:

Connie and Hitch whip towards them, charging at the Ares kids like idiots.

Jean frowns at Armin for a second before rushing him, fingers gripped around his twin blades.

Armin staggers backwards, nocking another bolt and aiming at Jean’s chest.

He’d really rather _not_ hit him. They’re… friends, or he’d like to think they’re at least sort of close to friendship for several reasons that aren’t all _that_ important.

But regardless, they’re in combat, there’s laurels at stake, and Armin draws his finger back and lets the arrow loose.

 _Thwip!_ It hits Jean’s exposed arm, and he cusses _loud_.

Whoops, thinks Armin, very briefly. He instantly moves towards Jean, fumbling with the pocket on his belt. Right beside him, Marlowe lets out a cheer, loudly high-fiving one of the Ares kids; Armin can see Hitch and Connie lying on the grass, disarmed and defeated, the Ares kids and Marlowe pulling them to their feet to take them away as prisoners.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Armin manages, and pulls the bolt out of Jean’s arm. _No maiming_ \- he definitely lost his desert privileges for that, if Jean tells on him. That’s a little disappointing, but he’ll deal.

“It’s fine,” says Jean, wincing. “Wow, didn’t think you had that in you.”

“Sorry.” He should get out the nectar, find some bandages...

Jean gives him a weird look. “You apologize a lot.”

“Oh - uh - sorry?”

“Three times in a row. I think that’s a record.” Jean actually _laughs_ at his own words, which is probably proof he’s at least mostly fine. The blood should heal up, anyways.

Technically, one of the Apollo kids, or Director Zeke, should be the one handling this. But Armin pulls out the vial of nectar he keeps on him, just in case something bad happens, and moves to give it to Jean regardless.

This, apparently, is a mistake, because Jean uses the movement to grab Armin’s arm and shove him to the ground. The vial breaks, spilling nectar and glass across the mossy floor.

Jean’s right above him, straddling Armin’s hips, and Armin moves to try and kick him off. That’s a dumb idea, because Jean’s taller than him and heavier than him and chances of managing to get him off with his legs and arms are slim.

Armin turns his gaze to the side, looking for the Ares kids and Marlowe, for help, but they’ve already disappeared back into the forest. Maybe, he thinks, they thought he had this handled. _They quite obviously thought wrong!_

Even with his face twisted in what’s clearly pain, Jean manages to keep Armin pinned down. The blue plume on his helmet is lopsided, which is the stupidest thing for Armin to notice right now, but his gaze fixates on it regardless.

“Are you going to knock me out now?”

Jean snickers. “Nah. I’m going to go get the flag. Mind telling me where it is?”

“No,” says Armin. He feels somewhat guilty about that. “Sorry.”

Jean’s pulling off of him, and Armin suddenly feels a bit colder.

“You _really_ apologize a lot. Sorry ‘bout the vial,” Jean says, and grabs his swords, managing to give Armin a lopsided smile. “But Hermes is keeping the laurels this time.”

“You’re not,” he says, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, but that proves exceedingly difficult on this uneven ground. “Eren and Mikasa are going to get it - _and_ we’re going to get the laurels.”

“Sorry, Armin! Not this time! Try again next week, maybe you’ll get it then!” Jean calls, then winces, almost hitting his shoulder against a tree, stumbling slightly.

His balance isn’t quite even, Armin notes. It’s almost a pathetic sight, but he seems to be handling himself fine even with blood running down his arm. At least, Armin hopes he’s fine.

Armin manages to scramble to his feet, grabbing at a low-hanging branch to steady himself.

He hears Jean gasp.

And _then,_ he hears something _else_.

Even with the fighting in the distance, he can hear it - someone moving towards them, walking across the grass. Not running, not charging, not storming forward… just _walking_. It’s so out of place that it seems… wrong.

Something - no, some _one_ \- pushes through the trees.

The air gets thicker, and he can _feel_ her presence before he even sees her - which is a bit hard, given it’s dark outside, and aside from the flickering of a few fireflies and the moonlight bearing down on them, there’s not much to go on.

But he can feel it regardless, settling down like a shroud around his shoulders. It’s colder than it’s been since winter, sending a shiver up Armin’s spine.

A young girl, dirty blond hair falling to her shoulders, bangs in front of her eyes and obscuring half her face. She’s wearing a silky, snow-white dress. The bottom’s caked with mud and grass stains, torn and ripped; he wonders if she knows. Based on how she moves, like she’s walking through a daze, he doesn’t think she has a clue.

And Armin _knows_ who that is - he knows because he’s heard people whisper and gossip about the oracle living in a cave in the woods, who never interacts with the people in Camp Halfblood. She just exists to give prophecies, to send young demigods out on quests. They say she was once a mortal, or once one of them, but she’s not anymore: she’s something completely different.

She’s looking right at him. Green mist spills out from her mouth as she opens it, a finger raised to point directly at him as she freezes, green fog pooling around her feet. Her eyes are glowing green, glowing so vividly he can see it through her bangs.

Her voice sounds like an echo - like it’s right inside of his brain.

It sounds like a _warning_.

_“Through forgotten garden, golden apple agleam,_

_Burning skies, find truth in the steam._

_You shall join with a brother, find what was once lost,_

_But beware the bones, don’t overlook the cost._

_Recall your dreams and seek out the sea,_

_And return home, chains broken and free.”_

And with that, the mist retracts, and the Oracle collapses to her knees.


End file.
